


Sandor’s Backstory

by JoJo7_7



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Biological Warfare, F/M, Forced March, Gildingham, Goblin Ogre War, POWs, pacificsim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoJo7_7/pseuds/JoJo7_7
Summary: “‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me,’ Sandor said, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. ‘If this is too much—‘“-FlashbackA long, depressing, over-dramatic backstory for Sandor. The story starts with Sandor fighting a battle in a Goblin/Ogre war roughly five years before Sophie comes to the Lost Cities. I rated it Teen just because there is some violence and death but if you are younger and this does not bother you, you are welcome to read this story! There is some very light romance between Sandor and Grizel.
Relationships: Sandor/Grizel
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. The Last Stand

This was Sandor’s last stand. There was no way he could survive this. Blood and sweat flowed and crusted on his skin. His golden armor was dented and broken in some places. Under the armor, his chest quivered with fatigue.  
Already a third of his force lay dead or dying on the baking ground. The fort was in ruins, the Goblin flag torn and trampled in the dirt.  
An ogre warrior swung his mace at Sandor, which he barely countered with his dented sword. The sword finally shattered, causing the ogre to rush forward at Sandor with bravado. The ogre’s confidence was too quickly formed. Sandor dodged and tugged his dagger from its sheath and stabbed it deep into the ogre’s back.  
Sandor wanted to step back, regain his breath, and make sure that the ogre was really down for good, but already another had come forward to take the fallen ogre’s place.  
They were in the midst of the latest Goblin and Ogre War. This one had started when the ogres broke an older treaty and attacked a goblin fort on the border. The fort retaliated and won, but the ogres left an virus that killed half of the soldiers in the fort. The disease spread to a nearby village where it killed most of the children and elderly. The goblins imposed a strict quarantine to keep the disease contained, but it still spread rapidly through the military. The elves and gnomes helped develop a cure, but by that time, the damage had been done to the country’s military, and ogres took advantage and attacked.  
This was by far not the first war between goblins and ogres, but it was definitely one of the most sanguinary.  
Sandor had command of a squadron, including his sister. They were both were fairly young soldiers. This was Sandor’s first war but not his first battle.  
The fort that his regiment had occupied, Fort Auric, was small and had not become of military significance until recently. A large ogre offensive had captured the other forts in the area, leaving Fort Auric as the lone sentinel.  
The ogres had cut off many of Fort Auric’s supply lines. Rations had to be cut down, and pretty much all of their resources were low. This coupled with the fact that the ogres largely outnumbered them made the regiment’s future look pretty grim.  
Sandor did not think the regiment could last much longer, and neither could he. The ogre now facing him was huge, and his sharp spear dwarfed Sandor’s dagger.  
The ogre took a long swipe, which Sandor jumped back from. The tip of the spear smashed the armor in the center of Sandor’s chest.  
Sandor hooked his knife under the spear to stab the ogre’s belly, but the ogre just tapped the dagger away with his spear.  
Sandor walked backward slowly, holding his dagger defensively. He looked to his side, hoping to see a goblin under his command who could assist him. Instead of help, he saw his sister on her knees, struggling to ward away an ogre’s huge blade positioned directly above her.  
Sandor forgot himself and prepared to throw his dagger at his sister’s attacker, but as he aimed, the ogre plunged his spear deep in Sandor’s chest, straying his aim.  
The dagger flew off mark and sank harmlessly into the dirt. Sandor’s sister fell back as her opponent swung his blade. Now Sandor was weaponless, and he had no way to save himself or his sister.  
The ogre laughed as he yanked the spear from Sandor’s chest with a sickening squelch. Sandor fell to the ground, coughing blood.  
The ogre thundered away, seeking his next opponent. Sandor pulled himself onto his stomach, and began to crawl towards his sister through the carnage before she...no, she’d be all right. Sandor tried to banish the thought from his head as he trailed blood on the battlefield.  
The battlefield felt endless, and the sun above was unrelenting. Sandor’s chest ached and bled unceasingly and he had nothing to cover it with except for chainmail. Less severe gashes took turns throbbing on his arms, legs, and torso. Sandor stopped to cough often, and sometimes it yielded blood. He worried that the pike wound had damaged something important in his chest, but most of his anxiety was over his sister.  
Grunts and shouts punctuated the scene. Sandor could smell the fear and bloodlust in the air. Fallen bodies surrounded him. There was a few ogres, but most of the fallen were goblins. Some cried and begged for water and home and family. Others made no sound at all except for labored breathing. Some did not breathe at all.  
Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of carnage and terror, Sandor reached his sister. Desperately, he grabbed her arm to feel for a pulse. Sandor felt a faint beat which initially brought him hope, which soon faded when he realized the pulse’s irregularity.  
She was bleeding so heavily that Sandor could not tell where the blood coming from. He wished he had bandages or even some cloth. Sandor pressed his hands on various places on her body, but her blood just welled from between his fingers.  
Eventually Sandor gave up. He rested by her side and held her wrist, feeling for the pulse that was slowly fading.  
Sandor’s family had a long history of military service. Soldiery was an important part of his family’s values. At the outbreak of the war, Sandor had already become a soldier. His sister had hated war and violence, but that was her family’s legacy. She was forced to enlist or face disgrace.  
Gradually, Sandor realized he could not feel her pulse anymore. Trying to quell his mounting panic, he shifted his hand, hoping to resume feeling her pulse. When that did not work, he put his hand over her face, feeling for her breath. Finally, in desperation, he pressed his ear to her bloody chest.  
She was dead. Sandor could do nothing. Gripping her hand, he began to speak softly, punctuated by coughs and sobs. “Please. Come...come back. I need you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you but I need you now.”  
His sister did not answer.  
“I am sorry I did not do more to keep you from enlisting. I’m sorry I let my legacy kill you. I’m sorry I wasted my last weapon. Please, please come back.” Sandor murmured as tears traced paths down his face.  
“I imagine they will aurify you. Live forever in gold. I love you.” Sandor whispered.  
Sandor looked at his sister one last time. Then he picked up her abandoned sword and tried to stand up. His squad needed him, he had to keep fighting...  
Sandor’s vision swam as he tried to lift up the sword. Holding it aloft, he felt woozy. He dropped the sword and fainted.


	2. The Forever Unanswered Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor awakens to find himself a prisoner of war. He and the other goblins must survive terrible conditions as the ogres drive them along the desert plain. The desert is thirsty for the blood (just metaphorically)...

Sandor woke to lash of a whip. Opening his eyes, he saw a sneering ogre standing above him. Sandor felt for his sister’s sword, but it was gone.

“Up get, you no worth pile crot!” shouted the ogre. 

Sandor stood up, legs trembling from fear and weakness.

The ogre dipped a curved weapon into a pouch on her waist. When she pulled the weapon out, it was crusted with silver powder. 

Sandor flinched when he realized what the weapon was. It was a shamkniv. Usually they were used to punish Mercadirs, but he had heard stories about them being used to torture goblin prisoners.

Instead of cutting him with it, the ogre plunged it on his chest wound.

Sandor closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the agony of it. The powder made his wounds hurt even more, but he could feel his strength returning. 

The ogre glared at him as fresh blood from the shamkniv bled down his body. With poor Goblinish, she barked, “You now prisoner of war. You no talk. You do what ogre tell you. You no try the escape.”

Sandor nodded. She lead him to a group of chained and guarded goblin prisoners. She chained him to the others and left. 

Sandor looked around. The other goblins did not look good. Most of their armor was smashed. Many of them had deep wounds with the silver powder in it. 

An ogre came and chained another goblin to the group. The goblin tried to resist and managed to punch the ogre in the eye.

Her actions gave Sandor courage. He ran at the ogre hoping to knock him down as the other goblins joined him. 

Suddenly a volley of arrows rained down on the prisoners. One sank into Sandor’s arm. He and the other goblins stopped moving. He pulled the arrow out with his teeth. 

More ogres came over to guard them. “If you try something like that again, we’ll do this!” another ogre barked.

Suddenly, the pain in Sandor’s wound spiked. He dropped to his knees, eyes watering. The other goblins in the group did the same. Through blurred eyes, Sandor saw the silver powder in his wound bubbling.

The ogres laughed. A superior ogre, with better Goblinish, said “That silver powder in your wounds is actually an colony of engineered bacteria. It will slowly heal your wounds, as you may have noticed. We can also cause it to hurt you, like we just did. You can not get it off. Only we can. We control the bacteria, we control you.”

Sandor trembled. He was terrified. This was a nightmare. He wanted to go home.

***

Water. That the only thing Sandor could think about.

When he and the other prisoners started their march, Sandor had been able to distract himself from the pressing need, but now most of his self control had evaporated under the hot sun.

Sandor had lost track of the time, but he was sure they had been marching for weeks or even months. His wrists were completely raw from the chains that had not been taken off since the start of their trek. 

The weather had been brutally hot and the landscape sandy and flat. Red sand and grey shrubs extended as far as the eye could see. Occasionally, dust flared up in the air, stinging Sandor’s eyes and hurting his throat.

They walked all day. Irregularly, they would be given rations of grey, tasteless paste. When they stopped for the night, they were given water. Then they would rest on the hard ground, still chained together.

Now, at the end of the journey, only half of the goblins were left. Sometimes, in the morning, someone would not get up. The prisoners would try to wake them up, but usually, they were past that. The ogres would cut them out and leave them to the scavengers. 

Often, someone would faint during the trek. Whoever was closest to the fallen prisoner would slap them awake, and then they would keep going. If they did not wake up, the ogres would cut them out. 

Although many died of exhaustion, most died due to the actions of a goblin named Calvar. About two thirds into the journey, Calvar rebelled after his girlfriend died. He had recognized a poisonous cactus breed, and when the group stopped for the night, he used the spines to pick the lock on his cuffs. He harvested some of the poison from the cactus, and snuck off to put it into the ogre’s food. Calvar did not make it far, he was caught by one of the camp sentries.

All of the prisoners assumed that Calvar had been executed, but the ogres chained him back to the group. Everyone was relieved. Now Sandor knew it would have been best if Calvar had died.

If anyone had been looking carefully, they would have noticed that Calvar’s arm had a small puncture mark from a syringe. They would see that even in the hot, dry weather, he was trembling. 

However, by the next morning, Calvar’s symptoms were not so subtle, and Sandor could tell something was seriously wrong with him. Calvar had developed a violent cough, and his chills had gotten much worse.

By the next day, Calvar was dead and his affliction was spreading. The prisoners had not bathed since the battle. The silver powder prevented their more serious wounds from getting infected, but the frequent punishments did not let them heal either.

The disease was not killing everyone who caught it, but it spread very quickly. Surviving prisoners lost most of their remaining strength, and often died days afterward because they could not keep going. It was evident that the goblins were being punished.

Sandor watched as the sickness slowly got closer to him... He had been far away from Calvar’s spot, but the gap between him and the infected was getting smaller. Finally, someone next to him got sick.

Before Sandor knew it, he could feel his strength draining away. The daily march that was once arduous became torture. The air that was once warm and gritty became a burning burden. Breathing used to be natural, but now it was an effort. Worst of all, water that was once a rare resource became a forever unanswered dream.

As they plodded, Sandor saw water and goblin settlements. He knew that they were just hallucinations, but that knowledge did not make them any easier to ignore. 

Sandor was able to avert his gaze from the hallucinations until his fevered mind produced images of his sister. Energy he had forgotten he had welled up desperately. He ran forward, pulling at the chains, crying out her name. “Saracet!”

The other goblins were by now familiar with the delirium that accompanied the fever, and pulled back at his chains. The prisoner next to Sandor did her best to soothe him, even as the ogres caused her wound to ache with the silver powder.

So when the ogres stopped early the next day, the part of Sandor that had submitted and given up was thankful. But the part of Sandor that still stood on its own two feet was apprehensive. Why would the ogres do this? They had to have some reason, maybe this would lead to a new punishment.

Instead, the ogres laughed and smirked. Then one said, “We is bored. Someone, come up and make spar with us.” Sandor noticed how unprofessional the gang of ogres facing them appeared. He doubted what they were about to do was authorized.

No one volunteered. Maybe earlier in the march goblins would have leapt at the chance to fight their captors. Now, everyone was far to weary. All of their energy was being used just to get through the day. Many of them were weak from sickness.

“No one? Alright!” said one of the ogres, his eyes glimmering mischievously. With a barely contained gasp, Sandor sank to his knees. The powder in his wound burned. “I’m going to keep doing this until someone volunteers.” said the 

A goblin named Tolliver volunteered. An ogre cut his chains. “There are no rules! Fight dirty! Just know that you will be defeated!”

As Tolliver and his opponent began to circle each other. Tolliver had been one of the first goblins to get sick, so he had already recovered. Other then that, he did not have much going for him. 

The ogre Tolliver was fighting was well fed, her body was lined with hard muscle. Numerous scars proved her experience and her practiced stance and cocky expression proved her skill.

The battle was short. The ogre charged at Tolliver, which he dodged. But Tolliver was weak, and he could not run forever. He slipped, and the ogre sacked him. Tolliver rolled on to his side, trying to protect himself. The ogre went to kick him, but Tolliver head butted her. She wrapped an arm around his neck and began to squeeze. Desperately, Tolliver kneed her in the stomach. Growling, she broke his neck.

Sandor gasped. Tolliver had been so brave. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to contain his threatening tears. 

“That was no fun. Too easy. Anyone else?” asked an ogre. When no one volunteered, the silver powder began to ache. Sandor focused on breathing over the crushing pain. He could stand it. He would not fight-it was suicide.

A goblin next to Sandor was breathing very quickly, her breath coming in short gasps. Her eyes started to roll backward and she fainted. Sandor could not let his comrades suffer like this. He volunteered.

The ogres unhooked his chains, but left on his cuffs. They had left him a weapon. Sandor wondered if the fever was making him crazy. He had no way of winning with strength, so he forced himself to be alert. 

In the brief seconds it took for Sandor’s opponent to prepare, Sandor formulated a plan. 

Sandor attacked first, surprising the ogre. He had not expected the weak goblin to strike first. Sandor rushed forward and caught the ogre’s side, kicking at the bare skin with the sharp bits of broken metal that were the remains of his boots.

The ogre flailed his fists angrily as Sandor dashed out of reach. Blood dripped into one of Sandor’s eyes from a gash that he had not realized he sustained. The ogre must have clipped him as he ran past. Suddenly, the ogre came up from Sandor’s left, punching his face. 

Sandor ducked and raked his still present cuff across the ogre’s face. 

The ogre kicked him in the stomach, sending him sprawling backward. 

Sandor landed lightly, fingered the sandy ground and ran back at the ogre, and at the last second he swerved out of the way. As the ogre moved forward, Sandor tripped him. As the ogre stumbled, Sandor threw the sand in his face. Then, as the ogre tried to get his bearings, Sandor slammed into the ogres body, knocking him to the ground, locking him into a tight clinch.

The ogre roared as oxygen drained from his brain. Sandor could feel his clinch loosening and his arms weakening. He tried to muster more strength, but he was running on the last drips of adrenaline. 

Sandor ran out of time. The ogre blinked away the last of the sand and shock. Before Sandor could register what was happening, he was flying through the air. He landed with a pained cry as his vision flicked white. He retched into the sand while the ogres laughed.

Sandor tried to get up before the ogre could pummel him further. The ogre went for his head, but missed. Before he could recover, a blow to his back sent him back down again. Sandor curled up into a ball, trying to protect his vitals from the onslaught. 

The spectating ogres booed, bored with Sandor’s pathetic blocks, but also with the ogre’s advances that never seemed to hit their mark. Mercifully, the ogre stopped hitting him and stepped back, saying something about Sandor not being worth the effort.

Sandor looked at his opponent through rapidly swelling eyes, trying to communicate his gratitude. The ogre would not meet his eyes. As the the ogre walked away, Sandor could see his steps weaving. Sandor realized that he had probably given the ogre a concussion. The ogre probably could not even see straight enough to nail him.

Sandor could hardly stand, and he made no resistance to being reattached to his chains. 

The ogres got caught after that, so there was no more fights. Sandor was glad about that, but now came the seemingly insurmountable task of the next day’s march.

By noon the following day, Sandor knew he would not be able to make it. Everything was a dull, throbbing agony. The air seemed too heavy to breathe and he had fainted two times already. Each time he fainted, the ogres amped up the silver bacteria. The jolt of pain made living even harder. It seemed that the ogres had not forgiven him for concussing one of their soldiers.

When Sandor came out of his third faint, he became aware of support from the other prisoners. The goblins on either side of him were raising their cuffs slightly, so he did not have to carry their weight. Whenever he stumbled, the goblin behind him helped him up. The goblin in front of him walked faster, pulling Sandor forward. With their help, he made it through the march. And the next, and the next, until he could support his own weight.

Generosity had taken its toll though, and the day Sandor had sufficiently recovered, he was supporting the weight of the kind prisoner next to him. She was dead by dusk. He wished that he had learned her name.

The only issue that Sandor could not stand was his dehydration. His blood felt thick and lethargic, and he could feel how he was a couple thirsts away from death. He lived life between drinks of water. 

Now the water wanting time was nearly over. Sandor could see the ogre fort in the horizon. He could not decide whether to be anxious or relieved. Was the nightmare over, or was it merely passing on to its next stage?


	3. The Reason to Live

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prisoners arrive at Edicon Base, where they are put to forced labor. But the Ogres are using them for more than just factory work...

The prisoners from Fort Auric had been joined with other prisoners and brought to the base’s work camp. The other groups were more or less in the same condition as Sandor’s. 

Sandor could tell his group had been prisoners for longer than most of the other groups due to the marks on their wrists from the cuffs. He could also see that the groups came mostly from the same area due to the presence of sunburn and sweat. All of them had silver bacteria. 

Most of them seemed to have experienced the punishment fever, but not all. Although Sandor had mostly recovered, he did his best to keep from doing anything that might spread it. He dreaded seeing it swarm through their ranks.

During the day, the ogres removed the goblins’ chains and put them to work in a munitions factory. The work was difficult but not grueling, and the rations were much better than the ones on the march. 

After a long day of factory work, the prisoners were held in a large white room. It was completely empty and stunningly clean. The ceiling was glass and the ogre guards watched them from above it. The whole thing made Sandor feel very uneasy.

Sandor could feel his smaller wounds healing and his strength returning. Soon he would regret the strength that he dreamed of regaining on the march.

***

Sandor could tell something horrible was about to happen when one day, after the prisoners were unchained, they were left in the white room. 

Most of the prisoners went to talk to friends, plot escapes, and celebrate their newfound freedom of motion. But Sandor knew this freedom was fake and it would come at a terrible price. Several of his friends came over to celebrate with him, but all he could think about were the ogres’ leering faces just above him.

Then it started. A steady high pitched whine. It was so subtle hardly any of the prisoners noticed it, and if they did, they thought nothing of it. 

Slowly, the strange noises escalated and intensified. Prisoners with sensitive ears were visibly uncomfortable, sweating and writhing.

Aware of the mounting tension around him, Sandor tried to get away from everyone. A restless anxiety permeated through his body as his heart raced. Around the room, the prisoners were in the throes of manic elation and crushing depression.

Curled up in a corner, Sandor closed his eyes and plugged his ears, focusing on his ever-quickening breath. All around him, goblins were succumbing to an overwhelming bloodlust.

Even through his plugged ears, Sandor could hear war screams and agonized cries. He didn’t dare open his eyes. Someone fell close to him, moaning in pain. Someone kicked his head, smacking it into the wall. Sandor passed out.

When Sandor came to, the formerly pristine room was peppered with unconscious bodies, with various degrees of injury. Some were dead. The horrible sound torture was gone, but another horrific sound was reverberating through the room. Several prisoners were sobbing.

“I didn’t mean to do it! My friend, wake up! Forgive me! I can’t do this anymore!”  
screamed a goblin with hands caked with blood. Then to Sandor’s abject horror, he sliced his wrists with a broken shard armor.

Similar heart-wrenching scenes were occurring throughout the room. Sandor was infinitely grateful that he has been knocked out before he could hurt anyone. His heart filled with dread. Would he be so innocent next time?

***

Twenty-three goblins were cremated the next morning. Besides that, work went on as usual. They learned what the sound torture was called: grusom’daj. No one really knew when it would happen again, but apprehensive theories spread like wildfire.

There were bloodstains on the floor of the white room. Certain areas had more than others, and the terrified prisoners had all sorts of sorts of superstitions about them. At night, screams from traumatized goblins’ nightmares punctuated the darkness.

Sandor had measured the length of the forced march in water. His based his time at the base on tortures.

When the second grusom’daj started, the goblins picked up on the sounds almost immediately. It was all they could listen for. 

Sandor plugged his ears and ran for the wall and began to hit his head against it as hard as he could. He had to pass out before his brain ran out of time. His body was working against him. His flinch reflexes were preventing him from hitting his head hard enough. A downward spiral was beginning to take effect; as Sandor hit his head, the pain lessened his self control, increasing his susceptibility to the sound, which in turn decreased his resolve to harm himself.

Before Sandor knew it, he was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth on the floor, screaming through his teeth. He was dangling from sanity by a single center line. He lost sight of himself when he was flung bodily through the air by a tortured prisoner.

Roaring with bloodlust, Sandor fell into the mob of frenzied bodies. 

When Sandor came back to himself, he was covered in blood, little of it his own. He was lying in the center of a pile of beat up bodies. 

Sandor did not deserve to live. But, then, neither did the goblins deserve to be tortured. Staring at his bloody hands, he briefly contemplated suicide. Then he looked up, and it saved his life. 

All around him, Sandor’s people were splayed out, injured, weeping, and grappling with suicidal thoughts. It would be cowardly to abandon them. He promised himself that he would not rest until they were safe. And then, maybe he could live with himself. 

He would start with the goblin who was scraping gashes on to her arm. Sandor ran over and caught her hand. “Its not your fault. You couldn’t control yourself. Your people need you. You can’t abandon us now.”

She looked at him, eyes vivid against her pale face. “You’re right. So what’s your plan, lieutenant?“ Now that was a title Sandor had not heard in a while! He remembered her reporting to him like that before she got transferred. Trinelle. That was her name.

“First, we need to find a way to stop the grusom’daj, even it is only temporary. So we need to find out where the sound comes from.” Sandor stated.

“Seems as good a place to start as any.” Trinelle said. “I’ll go ask around and see if anyone heard it louder in a certain location.”

Sandor nodded affirmative and went off to recruit more prisoners. The troubled ones were the most likely to join him. The less disturbed goblins were hesitant to plan an escape it fear that things would get worse. But the ones on the verge of suicide and self harm desperately needed hope and purpose. They took Sandor’s mission as a reason to live.


	4. The Other Remnants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the threat of the grusom’daj looming, Sandor and his team must find a way to escape. But the lives of their comrades are on the line, and a single misstep could spread disaster...

Trinelle came back later and told Sandor and the others that the grusom’daj was loudest in the center of the room. She went further, saying the that the speakers had to be in the center floor, the other walls were too far away. 

In order to get to the speakers, they would need something to break the floor with. The ogres made sure not to leave the prisoners with anything tough enough to break through the floor. But Sandor had an idea that turned the ogres’ skills against them.

The next day, while the prisoners were at work in the munitions factory, the goblin next to Sandor, Windec, screamed excessively loudly. Windec’s arm was twisted. Little did the foreman know that Windec’s arm had been that way since he was born.

“What is problem?” an ogre foreman shouted of the din of the factory, obviously aggravated at the disturbance. “Windec got his arm caught in the machine. It’ll have to to be cleaned!”

The foreman, obviously not wanting to go to the effort of getting an ogre janitor, sighed and allowed Sandor and Trinelle to go get the cleaning supplies.

Step, step, eyes down, submissive, we want no trouble. Sandor repeated the litany in his head as he and Trinelle walked to the janitorial closet. It was imperative that the timing be perfect. If he was even a step out of time, if the planned distraction in the adjacent hallway went wrong, if the ogre patrol was not in position, they were doomed. 

Once they opened the door, Sandor and Trinelle heard shouting in the hallway. Sandor’s muscled seized up, the blood in his ears were roaring. Then he and Trinelle grabbed the cart and plodded along. 

There was sixteen goblins ahead of them. Four of them were part of the team. They were tripping, shouting, kicking, anything to distract their ogre escorts.   
Sandor stared at his feet while Trinelle relieved one of the unsuspecting ogres of his markchain. 

They hurried on their way.

Once he and Trinelle returned, the day went as usual. Sandor and Windec cleaned the machine. It probably needed that cleaning anyway. 

When they finished, Sandor climbed into the compartment inside the cart and Trinelle shut him inside.

When the prisoners were returned to the grusom’daj room, they did not revel in the flawless victory. The next phase of the plan was much riskier, and if they failed, it was all over for the team. But even worse was the consequence the rest of the goblins would face. How many of them could survive another sickness?

***

Sandor was not a claustrophobic person. The close darkness of the confines of the compartment was comforting. It was hard to keep his eyes open. 

Sandor was wearing the markchain Trinelle had stollen. That, and the acrid smell of the cleaning supplies surrounding him should cover up Sandor’s scent. 

Because Sandor’s eyes and nose were impaired, he had to rely on his ears alone. The rumble of the cart’s wheels alerted him to its movement. The left front wheel was squeaky, and the sounds it made signaled the cart’s direction. Envisioning the fort’s floor plan, he traced the cart’s path in his head.

Finally, the cart reached the point the Sandor needed to reach. In one fluid motion, he jumped out and snatched the cart, slamming it into the shocked ogre. Taking advantage of the ogre’s imbalance, Sandor kicked her in the head. The ogre went down. He hit her in the head with a mop for a good measure so she’d be out for a while. Finally, he placed an open bottle by her head. Maybe the ogre would think she was high on cleaning supplies.

He edged his way into the room. He peered into the lab, straining to see if anyone was inside. There was one ogre working overtime. Sandor ran and tackled the ogre before he could be noticed. The ogre fell back into a cluster of orange cultures. Some of them broke, scattering bacteria stained glass. With the only ogre out, with a convenient excuse in place, Sandor could explore.

The room was used to manufacture some of the basic enzymes that the ogres used for defense of the fort. All Sandor needed was something strong enough to dissolve through the floor. The ogres would never suspect that the goblins would use their own enzymes against them, and for a good reason: the goblins knew almost nothing about them. 

But after all this time as a POW, Sandor and the others had started to pick up on some of the patterns. After pooling their knowledge, they were able to come up with the chunky light green powder as the best one for the job.

Sandor picked up the vial containing the green enzyme very carefully. He had no idea how potent it was, so he wrapped in a rag and stowed it away.

Then Sandor climbed back into the cart. Only one more phase left in this task. The rest would be up to Trinelle and Kalcet. Kalcet should be getting the cart again when it was returned to the janitor’s closet. Trinelle was getting pieces of scrap metal from the warehouse, which was easy to retrieve but hard to conceal. Hopefully her plan, which involved constant passing between prisoners would work.

Sandor listened as the ogre was discovered, disciplined, and returned back to work. He felt slightly bad for her. It couldn’t be easy, cleaning up bloodstains and other remnants everything her species tried to hide.


	5. The First Pitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and his team make their daring escape from Edicon Base, but there is one last hurdle to jump, and the gravity of heroism is a heavy burden...

This was it it. The first pitches of the grusom’daj had begun. But this time, there was a plan. Everything had fallen into place. The green powder worked perfectly, dissolving the floor and revealing the speakers. 

Using the scrap metal that Trinelle procured, Sandor’s teamed hacked at the speakers until the torturous sounds faded away. Then they used the sharp shards to climb the steep white walls that had held them back so long. 

The other prisoners stayed behind, pretending to hurt each other with reckless abandon for reality. Inside of them, flickers of hope burned, that maybe the team would escape and get help, that maybe they would be able to lay down their weapons and breathe freely, after a months of torture and twice as long of war. 

Wall-climbing was arduous work, but the team was running on a powerful fuel- adrenaline and hope.

They made quick work of the sentries at the top, stealing their markchains. The seven prisoners looked around at each other as the gravity of what they were doing dawned on them.

Their hesitation was over as soon as it started. Their people were depending on them. With Sandor in the lead, they avoided the patrol routes that they memorized, scents masked by the markchains. Compared to the earlier parts of the escape, it was easy to make their way out of the base. They vaulted over the poisoned fence, into the starlit grey sands of death beyond.

***

It was midnight when the perfect escape fell apart. 

Sandor and his triumphant team were jogging in formation, with him and Trinelle in the front. Trinelle was smiling, but Sandor was already worrying about the next obstacle before them. His torturous memories of the desert trek left him feeling like he was missing something important. 

The air was more crisp then he remembered, and there was a certain beauty in the unrestricted sight of the heavens and silver sand in all directions. Some of Sandor’s stress began to ease away. They really had done it, they really were free. 

Then Trinelle’s nose started bleeding. Sandor looked at the others. They had nosebleeds too, but Sandor figured it had something to do with the sand and their sinuses.

Then the team began to slow down, formation fumbling. Sandor had planned to put more distance between them and the ogres before stopping, but he understood importance of avoiding fatigue, and figured they might as well stop soon.

Trinelle fell to her knees, her ears bleeding, and the others soon followed suit. Sandor turned around. “Guys, what’s wrong?” he asked, panic edging into his voice.

“Can’t see...” wheezed Mindor, his body limp on the grey sand.

Trinelle moaned. “We’re dying...they knew we could never die free...”

Sandor screamed with the realization as a maroon powder became visible on his friends’ skin. “No! Nonono...Trinelle, please, you have to get up!”

“Sandor, you have to run...there’s gotta be a perimeter...a deadline...” Trinelle choked out.

With sudden intuition, Sandor looked at his arm, were a small piece of orange stained glass jutted. He had never noticed it before. It must have been from one of the cultures he broke back in the ogre lab. And it was the one thing keeping him alive, the reason a maroon enzyme had not yet begun to bloom on his skin.

“Run...you were always the best of us...” Trinelle gasped, before her eyes glazed over.

Sandor ran. 

Tears streamed down his face, as his mind went into hyperdrive, trying to puzzle out how he could have failed. 

A gust of sandy wind flew by, chafing his skin and sweeping away his lifeline as an orange piece of glass was tossed to the gales.

Then, he felt a slight trickle on his upper lip. Not having to check what was happening, Sandor ran faster. If Trinelle was right, all he had to do was run past the perimeter where the deadly enzyme worked. The deadline. He wanted to stop. To give up. To die. But now, his invincible survival instinct was kicking in.

His sense of taste was first to go. Then his sense of smell. Sandor did not miss them. Then his vision faded to black. He kept on streaking on. Somewhere ahead of him was the deadline. Then he started going numb. From the top of his head downwards. He crashed into the sand, no longer feeling his legs. His ears were bleeding. He told himself to keep moving, he did not know if he still was. Finally the roar of sand and blood faded from his ears. 

This was it. Death was closing in. Until it was not. Blood and sand roared in his ears. He was at the deadline. He waited for life to return.


	6. The Far Reaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now passed the deadline, Sandor is closer to freedom then ever. But his comrades dead and his strength depleted, he will not get anywhere...

Sandor’s senses were in flux. His whole body tingled pleasantly, like washing his hands in warm water after a snowball fight. His depth perception was way off, and he was not coordinated enough to stand. His eyes kept on sending weird black and white distortions of his surroundings to his brain. He was hearing a strange tinkling music from the billowing of the sand.

Sandor was thinking in loops. He could not think about anything for very long before his brain seized up and his thoughts scattered. At one point he figured the reason for all his body’s strange malfunctions were due to his near escape from full-body shut down. All he could do was wait for the sensation to fade.

Someone was approaching. That was all his beleaguered senses could tell him. His heart raced. He could barely feel his feet, much less run or fight. But then it spoke, and even with his muddled senses he could tell it was a goblin.

“Hello? My name is Grizel. Are you all right?” Sandor struggled to comprehend the strange mixture of sounds he had just heard. 

Grizel. That was what they said. Sandor tried to maneuver into sitting position. He failed miserably. 

“Woah...are you even alive?” Sandor finally managed to lift up his eyes enough so he could see the speaker. Her image was distorted beyond recognition, but Sandor could tell she was beautiful. 

“I... Sssandorr” he managed to slur out.

Grizel kneeled down by his side. “Are you...” she started, unsure of what to say.

Sandor nodded. “I....see...you...” he whispered. “I...see...you...” His tear ducts were not cooperating, and tears were beginning to pool in his eyes. He could hardly believe that in front of him was a goblin who was so...free. 

“And you are okay. It is okay. Its all right now.” Grizel was saying, stunned by Sandor’s tears. “I know you don’t have your coordination back yet. Here, let me help you up.” 

The feeling of her hands on his shoulders was strange. Sandor had become unaccustomed to gentle touch. As he stood with her support, he became aware of his memory. He had been running...and then... 

“No...my...team...” he murmured, his voice cracking. Grizel looked at him. Had he noticed how beautiful she was? 

“Come on, we have to go. There are ogre patrols in this area!” Grizel urged.

“Team...other-side...deadline...” Sandor slurred, but he was not coordinated enough to turn back, nor able to communicate his desire to turn back.

Grizel helped him along, supporting most of his weight while he slowly regained control of his legs. He stumbled several times, but eventually he was able to walk more or less on his own. Sounds were not nearly so garbled now, and he could understand most of what Grizel was saying. His vision was taking a little longer to realign itself. His surroundings had gone from black and white to sepia tone.

Grizel’s camp was in a cave hidden in the red rocks of sediment in the far reaches of the desert. 

As they approached the camp, Grizel tensed up. “I just caught the scent of an ogre patrol. There is only three of them. We can handle it.” she whispered, handing him one of the daggers from her bandolier.

Sandor doubted how much good he could do. He may have been able to walk, but he doubted that he could fight. Not having much of a choice, he tried to get into a good fighting stance. It had been so long since he had used any type of weapon besides the cuffs on his wrists.

Suddenly, Grizel was running forward and slashing her sword. To quickly for his stunned brain to process, he was attacked from behind. He barely turned around in time to parry the jab.

There was three ogres. There was nine. There was fifty-three. There were none. Everything was happening too quickly. 

Suddenly, everything around him clicked in to focus with a staggering clarity. There was an ogre lying in the sand. There was an ogre running. There was an ogre with Grizel’s sword pressing into his neck. Grizel. There she was, strong, brave, optimistic, and absolutely beautiful. His knees were giving out. His vision was bursting with silver. It hurt.

***

How was it that whenever Sandor thought he was free, something so small could stop him? He and his team assumed that once they escaped, the silver powder would die without an ogre signal. They had been wrong about that, like so many other things. 

It had been applied to his chest, so that was where all the pain started. It was hard to breathe, hard to move. It was easiest to lay stay still and try to close his mind off to it all. He thought that maybe Grizel was carrying him, it was hard to tell.


	7. The Mutual Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a new ally and the road back home beginning to reveal itself, Sandor is ready to leave this horrible place behind. But the past never stays dead...

Sandor came out the silver haze of unconsciousness. He reveled in the full return of his senses. He could smell the damp rock around him, the taste of water on tongue, see the beautiful patterns of sediment on the rock, feel the cool air on his skin, hear the sound of Grizel exercising somewhere nearby. 

The pain was still there, but pushed to the back of his mind. He only felt it when he coughed or moved too suddenly. He assumed its absence was due to the strange green bandage on his chest. It seemed to be elven or gnomen made, the stitch pattern was unfamiliar.

He slowly sat up a bit so he could see outside the cave. Grizel was throwing knives at a target... while cartwheeling. Talk about multitasking! He wanted to try that as soon as he was strong enough, assuming he got strong enough. 

Sandor had no idea what would be next for him. He assumed the goblins would take him back, but he was having some doubts about what his life would be like there. He might be treated as social pariah, for being the sole survivor of an escape party. Maybe he would retire with a pension to some remote village. Or maybe, he would be killed by ogres before even getting that far. Sandor had no idea whether he should be optimistic or pessimistic.

Grizel noticed he was awake and walked back inside the cave. 

“You saved my life.” Sandor said, gratitude finally registering in his brain. “I don’t know where I’d be...” he continued, even though they both knew. Dead.

“Well, that was a mutual action.” Grizel responded. “I’m special ops. I was ordered to infiltrate the base and get some much needed intel about the inner workings. But with a mission like that...Well you know the likelihood of survival...Now you can just tell we me what I need to know, and no one has to die.”

Sandor blinked. Base infiltration was serious stuff. Grizel must be extremely talented to be sent on such a difficult mission. But even more then that, it was the sort of mission that was volunteer only. She was really brave. Much braver than Sandor ever thought he could be. It was one thing trying to survive, another thing to go on a suicide mission for your country.

“What do you need to know?” he asked.

“Start from the beginning. Where were you stationed when captured?”Grizel inquired.

“Fort Auric.” he said.

“Woah... that was a while ago. You’ve been a prisoner for almost two years. Go on.” she said.

Sandor continued, telling her about everything except for Saracet. It felt to personal and sensitive to dredge up quite yet. He doubted Grizel needed to know about her anyway.

She flinched when he told her about the grusom’daj. It was hard for him to talk about too. He might have been crying, he was not sure. But it was important, and the goblin government needed to know.

It was even harder to talk about the final stages of his escape. He knew he was crying. Those memories were all so fresh in his mind. He could remember every detail of the agony on Trinelle’s face, the vibrant red coming from his friends’ noses and ears, their plaintive cries.

“Is that what you were trying to tell me when we were walking away?” Grizel asked, guilt evident on her face.

Sandor nodded, unable to meet her eyes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know...” she started.

“Its okay, it was probably for the best anyway. 

There wasn’t anything we could have done.” Sandor said, knowing it was true. 

Grizel lowered her head, closing her eyes. “Because of their sacrifice, we have the information we need to take down the base and free the rest of the prisoners.”

Sandor agreed, even as he wondered how things might have gone differently if Trinelle or one of the others had the orange culture shard instead of him.

“What’s this?” Sandor asked, fingering the green cloth on his chest.

“That’s an elven bandage soaked in an elixir that supposed to negate the effects of the silver bacteria. I assume that it is working.” Grizel answered.

“Yes, it feels much better. You dealt with those ogres really well back there. I’m sorry I was not much help.” said Sandor.

Grizel chuckled. “We don’t know how to get the silver bacteria out yet, but what you just told me about the shamkniv should help us figure that out. When we get back to goblin territory we can get you better treatment, but until then you’re pretty much stuck here until you are stable enough to travel.”

Sandor sat up fully, ignoring the sharp stab of pain. “I’m strong enough to travel.” 

“Yeah, but that’s because of the bandage. If you were to take it off you would probably faint.”

Sandor got into plank position, ready to prove his health with push-ups. Grizel was right, and he had to stop after five because he felt so weak he could hardly breathe. Grizel laughed at him, but she did help him back up and he could tell she was concerned.

Grizel brought him some water. He felt bad about being such a drain of her time. She probably had a lot more important things to do than tend to him. 

“You should probably try to rest some more. I’ll be setting some markers.” Grizel said. There was nothing Sandor could do to prevent his eyelids from sliding closed. 

***

What was going on? Sandor tried to wake up, but it was like there was a dark fog weighing him down on him. 

He tried very carefully to wiggle his fingers. After he had managed to get them moving, he moved up to his wrists. Suddenly, he felt the raw chafe of cold metal. 

His heart raced. How could he back in chains? He had escaped! He and Grizel were well hidden. And what about Grizel? Where was she?

Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that he had been sleeping, and that none of this was real. But in frenzied dream, all he could think was that he was trapped.

There was an ogre approaching. He walked over and said, “We is bored. Someone, come up and make spar with us.”

Nonono...he had already done this before. Wasn’t this just a dream? Yes, he was just delirious. He was with Grizel. Everything would be okay. Until it wasn’t.

This time, Saracet was still alive. And she volunteered. “No! Saracet, don’t do this! I’ll do it instead! Please, I will fight you! I’m stronger, see! It’ll be a better fight!”

Saracet looked at him, silver eyes blazing. “I will do it. This is my duty!”

“No!” screamed Sandor. “That was never your duty. It’s my duty!” 

The ogres knocked him down. Someone was running at Saracet. She was screaming. Sandor couldn’t see what was happening. 

When Sandor was finally able to get his face out of the sand, the fight was over.

Saracet had won. Blood ran in rivulets down her body. An ogre was sprawled at her feet, body brutally mangled.

Then she was running at him. “Why did you let this happen to me? Why have I become a killer? Please, make it stop!”

He was holding a knife. The ogres were gone. Sandor knew how to make it quick and painless. 

“Do it! Please! I can’t live like this anymore!” Saracet shrieked, her face contorted in despair.

“Saracet, I...please don’t make me do this!” Sandor cried. 

“You weren’t there when I needed you the most! You are the reason I have to die!” Saracet shouted, grabbing the knife a plunging it down


	8. The Unthinkable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is fighting two different battles, one for survival and the other for truth. But in order to win one, he has to win the other...

“Sandor, calm down. You’re okay.” Grizel was saying. She was holding his torso down.

He blinked his eyes open and sat up. He was panting. His chest hurt, and their was a small stream of blood dribbling out from under the bandage. He was hit a sudden bout of nausea. Luckily, he did not have much to eject, just a thin stream of bile. 

“Are you done?” Grizel asked after a moment.

Sandor nodded, cheeks burning. He had not felt this embarrassed since those brutal first summer training sessions when he first entered the service. 

“Maybe you should lean back again.” Grizel suggested.

Sandor complied, heart beginning to calm down.

“The bandage stopped working, so I had to sedate you. But what I gave you made you delirious. You were thrashing around a lot. And you kept on going on about duty and a... Saracet. Is there something you haven’t told me about?” 

Sandor looked away from her piercing eyes. “Please, just don’t do that again. I can deal with the pain.”

“I don’t think you can.” Grizel said, and at his protests, said, “No one can. I don’t know what you are dreaming about, but it can’t be worse.”

“I’ll tell you. But please don’t put me under again.” said Sandor.

“Tell me. And then I will decide. Who’s Saracet?” she replied.

“She was my sister.” Sandor said slowly.

“Was?”

“She was an artist. She was kind and forgiving and sympathetic and all the things that are so hard to find in our people these days.” he continued, heart aching with fond memories.

“She would paint these vivid landscape scenes. She’d only use three colors that she would blend and mix but there was so much depth...I don’t know enough about art to describe it. Even the elves were interested in it. She was going to get a scholarship to study at an elven art school.” Sandor still remembered the gleam in her pale eyes when she was at her canvas, paint splattered on her hands that refused to do harm.

“As you can probably imagine, that earned her a lot of scorn. She had trouble making friends. She didn’t get along well with our parents. I come from an old family. We have history. But she didn’t want to serve, and to my family, it was unthinkable.” he continued, lost in the memory.

Grizel cocked her head. “But how hard could a couple of years of compulsory service be? Couldn’t she be, I don’t know, a desknik or something?”

“I’m a Zerimar. That was never an option.” Sandor said quietly. The Zerimars were an old family. Jaycet Zerimar had been the queen’s highest war advisor during the 16 years war, and Treyzel Zerimar was the author of a important book on battle tactics. Further back, Cametzer Zerimar had reinstated the royal line. They were known for being stiff, traditional.

Within the family, thing were not much different. Inner power plays were constantly machinating. Sandor and Saracet were on the fringes of the family. Saracet’s “weaker qualities” tended to make the siblings black sheep.

“She was always taken aback by all the power struggles in the family. It didn’t help that I was showing potential in the military world. The things you and I could do without breaking a sweat would make her physically ill. They would make fun of her, call her an elf because she couldn’t slash a dummy without vomiting. But she had a kind of quality that they couldn’t dream of having.” Sandor saw Grizel’s eyes soften.

“I think I know what you mean. We could all do well to be more like that.” she said.

“With the outbreak of the war, she had no choice but to enlist. In a family like mine, if she hadn’t, she would never leave Gildingham again. She would not be able to go to the arts school. But even more then that, she’d would have been completely rejected. No home, no family. She’d be an exile in her own country.” Sandor said, a lump forming in the back of his throat. 

“I should have done more to stop her. If I had just stood up for her...” he started, brows furrowing. He broke into a cough, chest aching with rough motion and heartache.

“It’s okay, Sandor. You can relax.” Grizel said.

Sandor took a deep breath, trying ease his tensed muscles. “We were in Fort Auric together. I could see how training changed her. She was distant, isolated. I couldn’t get through to her sometimes. Whenever she got militant orders, her eyes kind of... glazed over. I don’t think she saw the beauty in life anymore.”

Grizel put a hand over his. “No one... no one can keep their innocence out here.”

Sandor looked at Grizel’s hand, calloused and tough, yet dexterous and swift. His mind’s eye held a picture of similar hands, but with callouses from a paintbrush rather than a sword.

“She died during the final battle, when the bulk of the regiment was dyeing the sand red. I was down to my last dagger. and my armor was broken. She was on her knees, I was only one on their feet close enough to help her. I threw the dagger, but an ogre stabbed me in the chest. I missed.” Sandor said, an army of emotions thundering in his heart.

The desert was quiet, and it felt like the whole world was listening. Well, he would tell them the truth about war!

“It is probably for the best that Saracet died.” Sandor said slowly, silvery eyes hardening. “War ruined her for life. I don’t think she could live with herself when peacetime comes.”

Grizel looked at him deeply, staring into the root of his being. Her stoic features were melting, intense feeling building in her face.

Sandor felt wrung out, devoid and empty. He had said the unthinkable, something no goblin was supposed to say. 

“Sandor, you think too much.” Grizel said gently. When other people said those words, there was always some derision in their tone. But with Grizel, they were an observation.

“I’m not going to give you the sedative, but that is just because I don’t want you thrashing around, you could make yourself worse.” she said after a pause. “Besides, it is all going to wear off at some point. And it’s not like it actually helps, it just takes the pain away.”

Sandor could tell that she was disturbed by what he had said. He would let her ruminate on it.

“It is going to hurt, you know. The pain is just going to keep building.” Grizel warned.

“Thanks for the encouragement.” Sandor said, trying to look brave on the outside. He would have to deal with it. There was no alternative.


	9. The Indomitable Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor is on the last legs of his endurance as he struggles to survive the enzymes’ attack on his body. He must find the strength to fight on, but he will need more than strength of body to fight this battle...

At first, Sandor slept through most of the pain. He opened himself up to it, stopped resisting it. He found that the less he moved, the less it was able to spread through his body. 

It was becoming harder to stay aware of himself. His sense of place was dissolving, and a lot of the time he forgot where he was or why he hurt.

Sometimes he heard Grizel’s voice bubbling up from the silence. He could not quite comprehend what she was saying, but the vibrations were comforting.

Eventually he became aware that they were moving, he heard more voices than one. The movement was making it worse, but he was too far from his brain to tell them.

Sandor began to reach the limits of his tolerance. There was only so much his training, experience, and stamina could allow, and he began to feel oversaturated with it all.

Sandor’s nervous system would not shut up. He was starting to have trouble breathing, and his thoughts became increasingly panicked and jumbled. 

Gradually, he felt something change, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It stopped after an indefinite amount of time.

He only realized what had happened once it happened again. He was not breathing. It made sense, the bacteria in his chest had finally taken control of his lungs.

Part of him wanted to slip away from it all, but he knew that his job was not over yet. Somehow, he was going to have to make a difference. Somehow, he needed to keep the innocents from dying in other people’s wars. It was irresponsible to give up on life that had been stolen from so many others.

So Sandor fought it as hard as he possibly could. He would keep oxygen coming in and carbon dioxide coming out. He would keep his blood rushing and moving. He would keep the hard won life inside.

***

“Sandor, we had to inject you with adrenaline to keep the from bacteria overpowering your respiratory system. I’m sorry, but you are going to be a lot more conscious now. We are almost there, I promise.”

Sandor saw Grizel’s face, but more than that he saw the faces of other goblins. The lights were too bright, the sounds too loud.

He was gasping, struggling, thrashing, and something was holding him down. He was terrified because he could feel himself sinking down. He was slick with sweat, and maybe blood. The faces were concerned. He was on a stretcher. 

Everything was agonizingly slow, but he was to frantic to focus on anything for long. He was spasming and shivering and struggling, he did not know how much longer he could hold out.

He was inside now, someone was begging him to relax. But he could not be still, and again he could not breathe, but he told himself he could not die.

He tried to stay still. Sandor could not focus on his breathing, so he focused on his straining heart beats. His body thrummed with stress and agony, but it was slowing down and blurring together.

Amidst it all, Sandor tried to think. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw that there were doctors bent over him. Some of them were elves, so he must be in an emergency room. They were taking tiny slivers of shrapnel out of his chest.

His chest. He tried to think, feel his heart. The shrapnel must be from the ogre’s spear that stabbed me. That is where the bacteria from the shamkniv went.

They were backing away, they were starting to stitch him up. To control his body was a incomprehensible task, but he felt again the indomitable sense of purpose. “Wait...” he rasped.

The doctor with the stitches jolted, and Sandor winced at the movement. An low elven voice exclaimed in surprise, but Sandor could not tell what they were saying.

“You missed one. Deeper, to the left. Near second to last.” Sandor whispered. The doctor put away the stitches. The elven doctor came forward and began flashing lights around his chest.

“Keep going.” said the elf.

“Higher up...” Sandor gasped, his vision was fading, he did not have enough oxygen.

“Got it.” said a voice, but Sandor already knew. There was an instant relaxation in his chest. He was fading away into rest, and the doctors must have done something to allow him to breathe. He was going to live.


	10. The Bright Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sandor convalesces, there is more to recover from than just wounds...

Sandor was safe. He was not dead. He was not fatigued. He was not dehydrated. He was not in terrible pain. It was almost strange to be not in need of anything after being so wretched for so long. 

But every time his heart beat during his long convalescence, he felt like he was stealing it from someone else. Someone who should have escaped with him. Someone who actually deserved to be safe.

The ogre base he had been imprisoned in, Edicon Outpost, had been liberated two weeks ago, but only half of the prisoners were left.

In the privacy of his room, he gave in to his grief and cried silent tears for the friends who would never know safety again. Drying his tears, he hugged his knees and hid his face from the unforgiving world.

Shaking Sandor from his depressed reverie, the door to his room opened. He straightened, watching Grizel stride in. The sight of her smirking face and swishy ponytail couldn’t help but to make him smile. She had saved his life after all.

“Hey, Sandor. I was in town so I though I might come to see how you were holding up.” Grizel said.

“I’m doing much better, thanks to you. Not up to much here, as you can see.” Sandor replied. Grizel looked in the direction of the bedside table which held a couple books and magazines. 

Grizel walked over and studied the cover of one the books. 

“What’s this?” asked Grizel, picking it up. “Catalysts for Beginners” she read aloud.

“I’ve been doing some research.” Sandor said softly. “The death enzyme was probably applied to our rations. Once we ingested it, it consolidated in our thyroids. When we escaped the base, the absence of the ogre markchains alerted it to exit the thyroid and enter the blood stream. It takes about three hours for the ogre microbes to clear, that’s why it took so long for the symptoms to show. A side effect of the enzyme is total sensual shut down. After that has occurred, the enzyme will start populating cells and dismantling the lysosomes.”

Grizel looked at Sandor, her head cocked, concern beginning to show in her eyes. “I’m sorry. What in the world is a lysosome?”

Sandor sighed. When he started speaking again, his voice was trembling. “The lysosome is an organelle in the cell that digests minerals, bacteria, or even old cells. It is bound by a membrane to keep in the enzymes it uses. But the enzyme the ogres use ruptures the lysosome’s membrane, so the digestive enzymes spill into the cell. It kills itself from the inside.”

Grizel looked him straight in eye. “You have to stop looking for the answers in books. They’re not the type of answers you’re looking for. Please.”

“There would not be much of them left...and attacks the nervous system first, so they...they wouldn’t have been in pain.” Sandor said. “Somehow, it makes me feel better to know they were not in pain. They deserved to stop...to stop hurting.”

Grizel looked at the floor, slowly back at him. “Maybe you’re right.” she said. “I would like to believe that.”

After a pause, Grizel pushed the book aside and snickered. “Human Folktales”? 

“What? They’re comforting!” Sandor muttered defensively. He used them to calm himself when he had nightmares. Of course he would never admit that to Grizel.

Grizel sat down next to Sandor, uncomfortably close to him. She tapped one his bandages. “When are you getting this off?” she asked.

“Soon, hopefully. Depends on how I respond to the marrow strengthener.” Sandor responded, tracing the bandage on his arm. “But that’s boring to talk about. What are you up to?”

“I’m assigned to the elite guard unit of an ambassador to the ogres.” Grizel said.

Sandor eyes widened. “Impressive. What does that entail?”

“Well, I can’t tell you to much, a lot of it is classified. But the ambassador’s becauseeen having a lot of meetings with important ogre Mercadirs. And they...well they are agreeing to an Armstice.” Grizel replied.

Sandor’s wide silver eyes filled with tears. He laughed more freely than he had in a year. “Oh, Grizel, is it true?” he asked.

Grizel nodded tearfully. 

“It’s over! It’s over!” Sandor cried, sobbing with joy and relief. “I only wish...” his heart squeezed. “I only wish they all could see it.”

Grizel smiled sadly. “They see it. With eyes of gold. But their deaths weren’t in vain. You... you have to live this future for them.” Then she reached out her calloused hand and gently wiped away Sandor’s tears.

Before Sandor could process what was happening, she slid her hand behind his head and pulled it closer. Almost against his will, he leaned into Grizel as she locked her lips on his. 

The elation and grief and desire of the moment were so intense Sandor felt like he might explode. When Grizel left the room, Sandor, his heart pounding, sank into his cot, and dreamed of the bright future that he never could imagine before now.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the war is over, a bigger fight is beginning, to a culture of war to one of peace. But for Sandor, who’s whole life has been dedicated to learning the art of war, the road forward is hazy...

Days ran together as Sandor searched for purpose. It was remarkable how much different everything seemed. The war memories colored everything in a new light.

The beauty of nature was striking. Sometimes he would lightleap to abandoned places and stay there for hours. It was much easier to fight his thoughts when he was alone. He had always been a pensive person, but now, these qualities were amplified to the max.

A lot of people did not understand. The ones that did were afraid to say it. But Sandor knew that there must be something fundamentally wrong with his civilization if sending millions to death and anguish was a generational occurrence.

***

Sandor ran down the trails of the city training grounds. He lungs were still healing and he needed an to use inhaler sometimes, and his body weaker than before the war. The doctors said that it would be a good idea to begin getting some exercise to regain strength. Sandor was just glad to finally be moving again.

The the light shimmered through the trees overhead, and the ground was dappled with sunlight. When the breeze blew through, the leaves turned into silver and some fluttered by Sandor’s face. The air smelled vaguely of olives.

All Sandor wanted was to share this moment with Saracet. He choked up a little bit and had to sit on a bench near the trail.

He remembered a time when he was on his first leave and he and Saracet had gone to a different park, not unlike this one. He was exhausted from training, so he relaxed into the lush grass. Saracet has brought a canvas and paints, and she painted the trees surrounding the meadow. Sandor half slept, half listened to the soothing sounds of paintbrush on wet canvas.

Eventually, Sandor stretched to his feet to see how her painting was coming along. He was surprised to see that she had painted him into the scene. He looked young, at peace. But there was something different.

“Where is my sword? Or my muscles?” he had asked her. His carefully managed toughness was gone, leaving a child behind.

“Those aren’t you. I wanted to paint you, the real Sandor.” She had answered, leaving him slightly bewildered.

He understood what she meant a little better now.

He reached up to touch his cheek, stunned to find it wet. What was he coming to? Crying without a moments notice? He had to stop if he ever wanted to reenter the real world.

He heard a childish voice coming from up the path. A little girl, her mother watching from up the hill, was running past. She held a practice foil, which she swung wildly. “Samitzer! I’ll find where you’re hiding. Goblins always beat ogres!”

An answering call came. “Not if I use enzizyzime boost, Aminor!”

Aminor noticed Sandor sitting on the bench. “What do you think? What’s better: enzizyzime blast or megamine explosion?”

“They both will achieve the same means in the end.” Sandor remarked miserably.

“Hey! Are you crying?” she asked, before throwing herself onto the bench next to him.

“I guess-“ he said, a little amazed. 

“What’s wrong? Ooh, were you a soldier?” she asked, pointing to the bandage on his chest. 

“That’s what was wrong. I went to war and now I’m sad.” Sandor answered.

Aminor cocked her head, not understanding what he was saying. “I’m going to be a great soldier some day. Even my throwing stars teacher says so!”

“Don’t you want to be anything else? An artist? Welder? Or maybe a weaver?” he added, noticing the elaborate woven bracelet on her wrist. 

“Not be a soldier?” she asked incredulously, like the thought had never occurred to her. It probably had not, no one had ever talked to her about it.

Aminor’s mother came over. “Come on Aminor, leave him alone.” she said, glancing nervously at Sandor. He could not meet her eyes.

The sun slid slowly by, and the shadows lengthened. Sandor knew it was time to go home, but it was hard to tear himself out of his reverie.

Eventually he got to his feet and stated walking home. Everything was so quiet, and so dark, it did not take long for Sandor to retreat back into his mind. He did not notice the gang until he stumbled into their ally.

They looked like protesters, their signs were leaning against the building’s side. It was too dark to read them.

“Whatcha doin’ soldier?” spat one of the protesters. “Looking for another war to fight?”

“Leave me alone.” said Sandor, as he tried to leave.

“Well, we’re tired you elites bossing us around. We’re people, not cannon fodder!” growled another.

“Wait a minute-“ Sandor started, meeting the protester’s eyes.

“The treaties you and your aristocratic friends keep signing are just going to lead to more war!” said a third.

“Wait! I didn’t sign anything!” Sandor responded.

“You’re a Zerimar, aren’t you? Well tell your family to stop manipulating us!” cried the second.

“We’re the ones who are going to pay for your next war!” said a fourth.

Sandor looked closely at the gang. The fourth protester was right, they all looked newly of draft age.

“Well we’re the generation that’s going to stop this cycle!” shouted the third, who seemed to be the leader of the bunch.

Someone threw a hard punch at Sandor’s jaw. He did not see who it was, he saw stars. 

“I’m not going to fight you.” Sandor exclaimed. A kick to the shin was followed by a punch in the eye was followed by a punch in the mouth. They were not terribly hard punches, but Sandor was weak. A punch to the gut set him gasping, and then coughing. A shoulder slammed into his chest, causing him to fall backwards into the wall.

His vision started darkening and his knees gave out. He could not catch his breath, the coughing continued. This was not the first time this had happened.

The protesters were freaking out. They actually seemed genuinely concerned. If Sandor’s hunch about them was right...

“Inhaler...bottom pocket....” he wheezed. When when his vision had completely blacked off, he felt someone holding the inhaler to his face. He breathed in and out a couple times until he felt better.

He sat up and looked around. The protesters looked completely different. “We’re so sorry.” said the leader remorsefully. “We didn’t realize...we did not mean to hurt you so badly...”

“I’m okay.” rasped Sandor. “I get breathing issues sometimes. My lungs are healing, but I’ll be alright. I’ve been through worse.”

The second protester dashed off.

Sandor began reapplying a bandage that had fallen off during the fight.

“Your chest...” murmured the fourth protester. “Why is it sparkly?”

“That’s an ogre control enzyme scar. It’s what they gave prisoners during the war.” Sandor answered.

“So that’s what it looks like...” breathed the fourth protester.

“You were a prisoner of war?” asked the leader, his voice cracking. His eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry. We thought you were an elite...are quarrel isn’t with you. I really respect you, all you went through. I just wish the government would listen to us so this does not happen again. Please accept our heartfelt apology.”

“I forgive you. I admit, I do look a lot like the Zerimars because I am one. But I don’t agree with them at all. Can you tell me more about what you are protesting for? It sounds really interesting.” Sandor assured. He did not pay much attention when the treaty was signed. He had still been in the hospital, and was too overjoyed with the wars end to think about the means.

“Sure!” the leader appeared to brighten up a little bit. “My name is Azurda. This is Brielle, Woltzer, and Cadoc.” he said gesturing to the others. Woltzer smiled bashfully. 

“I’m Sandor.” he said, extending his hand.

Azurda shook it, and then helped him up. “If you are okay with it, we can go to my apartment and look at some of the maps Brielle and I set up. You can understand what we mean a little better then.”

Sandor smiled. “I have nothing better to do.” It was not a long walk to Azurda’s apartment. On the way there, he talked animatedly about the flaws of the treaty.

Azurda’s apartment was small but cozy, and the group crammed inside. There were books and maps everywhere.

Cadoc got out a map of the Pacific Ocean. “This is from 30 years ago, after the 16 years war. Here, the Collai islands are marked as goblin territories.”

The Collai islands were a small strand of islands in the North Pacific uninhabited by humans. They were used by the ogres for mining, but were of no importance to the goblins. Still, during the 16 years war, many lives had been lost there during the hostilities, and the goblins demanded them as a victory prize. 

“When the Queen Sewda administration demanded those islands, it was as a punishment to the ogres. It had nothing to do with peace, but rather upholding the war. It was a constant reminder to the ogres of goblin superiority.” Azurda explained.

Brielle pointed to a goblin settlement in Antartica. “The ogres got this settlement, which has huge strategic influence for us. Sewda gave it up in order to get other concessions. Do you see the problem here?”

Sandor nodded. “The choices being made here are centered on honor rather than peace. We look to the past instead of forward. We want to replicate the same conditions that eventually led to war.”

Azurda smiled broadly. “Now you’re getting it! Now look at the new borders from the recent treaty.”

Sandor studied them for a moment. After he had been released from the hospital, he learned that the armistice had been signed for two major reasons- royal succession in the ogre lands and low resources on the goblin side. If a looser had to be picked, it was the goblins, but both sides had suffered greatly.

“We took back the lowlands even though the ogres have been living there longer than we have. This was to assert of dominance over conquered land, but the ogres living there are going to be a perpetual thorn in our side.” Sandor said. This is were Fort Auric has been. 

“The ogres got old goblin territories in the mountains. Without those territories, where are we going to get ziglithon for good marching boots?l” he added. “Or more importantly, for medical equipment? They always think of what will be needed for the next war instead of what we need for peace now!”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Azurda. 

“What can we do about this?” Sandor asked, brow furrowing. “This is counter-cultural! Most goblins, especially the powerful ones, won’t care because they aren’t the ones paying the price.”

“That’s our problem.” said Azurda, face falling.

“Not just our problem. The world’s problem...” Sandor thought. “And now all I know is war. That’s all our world knows how to do.”

“We’ll figure it out someday. Now there is more of us.” said Woltzer, somewhat unexpectedly.

Something lifted in Sandor’s chest. He wasn’t alone. The dissenter’s weren’t alone. There were people on earth who had dedicated themselves to peace.

“I have an idea. Maybe we could join the elven regiments and work to help the elves bring peace.” Sandor murmured, excitement mounting.

The faces around him lit up, and a sense of idealism with a purpose filled the small room.

Sandor was ready to do good for the world, and now he finally had his chance...


	12. Bonus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is just a couple Greek terms I defined in the context of the story...

Até- Sandor and the other goblins cannot initially understand Saracet and her aversion to violence. Many shun her. If they had tried to understand her, they could have avoid a bloody war and the ruining of her mind.

Hamartia- Sandor and his team of POWs are desperate to escape Edicon Base. They need to escape the place because their honor is ruined and they are forced to fight their own comrades. They over look the ogres skill with enzymes and the relative ease of their escape, leading to the death of most of them from the death enzyme.

Hubris- Sandor at the beginning of the war welcomes the opportunity to test his skill. He feels that nothing can take away his strength and self-assurance. He believes that the goblins will never be devastated by war. At the end of his ordeal, he can understand what it is to be weak.

Nemesis- Sandor feels a sense of accomplishment after he defeats the ogre in the impromptu fighting ring. However, the price of his victory, his nemesis, is that the goblin next to him works so hard to support him after his consequent weakness that she dies once he has recovered.

Peripeteia- Sandor attempts to save Saracet from an ogre soldier, but misses when he throws his last knife, leaving him unable to protect her and vulnerable. Saracet is killed and Sandor is taken prisoner.  
Sandor convinces a team of POWs to escape Edicon Base. They attempt this because they cannot continue to hurt their comrades. After they escape, however, the Death enzyme is activated in all of them except for Sandor. Though Sandor was trying to avoid hurting his friends, his actions lead to it anyway.

Anagnorisis- When Sandor is camped in the cave with Grizel, he realizes that war is ultimately bad for goblin civilization. He now understands it is due to the actions of himself and other goblins that Saracet is dead and that so many have been taken prisoner and killed by the ogres.

Catastrophe- Sandor realizes the truth about war and faces a long convalescence and an even longer search for purpose. 

Catharsis- This fanfiction gave me something to occupy myself with to keep my mind of things that distressed me. The difficult scenes helped me contend with my mixed feelings relating to war.


End file.
